A Convenient Catastrophe, page 14
In the twenty-five minutes it took to locate my dad, standing by the sign reading Revolutionary Row, transfixed by the woman weaving a basket, I was an orphan. Becky kept muttering, “He’s here. The fair will be gone tomorrow,” as if we just had to wait for the grounds to empty and we’d be able to locate the lone man surrounded by desolation. That was over twelve hours away. Even I, in my panic, put that together. Orphan: nowhere to go, no one who would love me. No one in the world who would even know me.
In twenty-five minutes, at the tender age of nine, I realized what it meant to really know someone. To this day, no one knows me like my father. No one has traveled inside of my heart all my days. No one has carried me inside of theirs. Just my father — the one I basically just took scissors to and cut out of the family portrait.
I listen to the crowd outside my office door. It sounds like there are more than usual for so late in the afternoon, but I don’t have the patience to deal with anyone right now.
I return to my spreadsheet: the status of sales, historical versus projected. It’s far less demanding than Helena’s hysterics, but I still hear Helena in my head. I’ll call her when I feel like it. Which will be never!
An hour later I take Otis out the back door for a quick walk then start to clean my office. Afterward, I unload boxes with determination, thinking about the reality of placing a call to Helena. How? I fluff the flattened pillow Otis has been lying on as I stand in the middle of my office and wonder how to keep track of this stuff without proper storage and then my cell phone vibrates. Scott Warner’s name appears on the display. I’m not sure I have the patience or energy to deal with this mess right now either. So many messes!
“I have a plan.” He gets right to the point. “We’re going to apply for a modification program for you. It’s doubtful we’ll get anywhere with it at the end of the day,” he warns me, “but it will buy more time.”
I’m agreeable to anything, but he hears the exasperation, me not rising to the challenge.
“Will you do me a favor, Amy?”
“Okay,” I say warily.
“I volunteer at Habitat for Humanity. We have a frame-in this Saturday. I want you to come.”
“I don’t know,” I stammer. “I mean, I—”
“It’s part of your bill. I require it.”
“Ha. Where and what time?”
“Hold on a sec.” He puts the phone down and I hear some sort of whimpering in the background.
He’s got a baby?
“Sorry. New puppy. Got him from the pound yesterday.”
“Aww. You like dogs?”
“And cats, and pigs, and horses, and cows. Grew up on a farm. I would’ve become a veterinarian if my dad hadn’t lost the farm to foreclosure and ignited a different fire in me.”
“Scott,” I say, reaching into my purse and finding it folded up, just where I left it. “Do you know a fourteen-letter word meaning,” I clear my throat and continue, “canine term for a broad head with a short muzzle?”
“Brachycephalic,” he says as if everyone knows that, as if it weren’t the most random question ever. “B-r-a-c-h-y-c-e-p-h-a-l-i-c.”
I pencil it in, and it works perfectly with ten down and three across.
“What’d you name him?” My voice is raspy with sentiment.
So what? The man likes dogs and knows vocabulary.
I am absolutely not going to lose my composure and swoon over my lawyer. Not happening. The likelihood on a scale of one to ten? Zero!
Realistically, a four.
Eight and a half, tops.
“Patere.” He sounds out the word with an emphasis on the last syllable, rhyming it with the word fear. “P-a-t-e-r-e.”
“Patere? Huh? Does he look French?”
“He kind of does,” Scott says in a now that you mention it tone. “Nah,” he chuckles. “Just like to say this is my pup, Patere. Corny. I know.”
I laugh immediately, remembering a wooden dog with four strings that Susan and I used to play with. One pull of the right string could make him stand up, hike up a back leg, or sprawl out with all four paws to the side. Nana had given it to me as an end-of-school-year treat and had given Susan… I don’t remember what Susan had been given, but we both played with that dog and pretended he was a show dog and we were his handlers.
“You could have named him Peeve. Like, meet my pet, Peeve.”
“I could’ve,” he agrees. I can tell he’s awed, either by the fact that I’m playing the game or that my name was actually better. “If I had a lion, I’d name him Dandy. Meet my dandy lion.”
“My panda, Monium. My cat, Scan.”
“If I had a chicken, I’d name him Magnet and take him to all the hottest clubs,” he says. “That way I’d always have my chick, Magnet.”
“And I’d say, ‘Move along and take your bull, Malarkey.’”
“I’ll see you Saturday after you close the café, Amy.” He ends our banter with a soft goodbye.
Best phrase ever: “I’ll see you Saturday.” Worst phrase ever: “I doubt we’ll get anywhere.”
THIRTEEN
The Flannery Cove High School graduation ceremony is held on Friday night. We take up two rows. Dad and Helena sit beside Deaton again, who has brought Kristlyn. Bradley and I sit behind them while I lean forward trying to monitor their conversation. Five minutes before the graduates march down the aisle, Greg and Sherri slip in beside us. Greg seats himself right beside Bradley and crosses one leg over the other at the knee.
Greg folds up his program into a coil and reaches across Bradley, tapping me on the knee with it, then turns his attention to Bradley. “Greg Hollander.” He holds out a large, tanned hand. Bradley reaches for it. The dark, curly hairs on Bradley’s knuckles seem excessive. A ridiculous thought. What’s wrong with me? So shallow!
I wish I had paid more attention to his white shirt and suggested something that would have brought out more color in his face. A nice salmon could have changed his hair color from its dishwater hue to a rich golden oak. Greg isn’t a tall man, but he has perfected the larger-than-life presence that diminishes everyone around him. It’s all I can do not to jab Bradley’s side and whisper to sit up straighter.
At least he used hair gel and made a bit of an effort I think to myself as the lights dim, and Bradley reaches for my hand.
When the ceremony is over, Greg slaps a flattened palm on my father’s back. “Ralls, my man. We know how to grow ‘em, eh Buddy?”
“How ’bout our girl, Ames?” Greg says to me.
“She’s a gem. Just like her mother,” I say pointedly.
“Pardon the pun, Amethyst,” Bradley says, leading us straight up to the joke and introducing us all to it, instead of just letting it stand on its own.
Greg cocks one eyebrow at me but doesn’t comment.
“Whatta you do, Brad-lee?” He pronounces his name like it’s two put together. It makes Bradley sound like a martial arts expert. Maybe he can karate chop Greg’s head right off his shoulders.
I turn to Bradley and look him over. His hair gel has dried, and his cowlick stands straight up, stiff as the peak of a whipped egg white.
“I’m in investing,” Bradley says. “Stocks, bonds, portfolios, all that stuff other people find boring.” Bradley just can’t help himself. He just can’t play it up.
Please don’t say numbers guy.
“Numbers guy.”
Greg tilts his head back, looking at Bradley with an analytical eye. “Raleigh, you all feel like a late celebration dinner at the Ale House?”
“He’s a bit of a narcissist, is he not?” Bradley says to me on the way to the Ale House.
“A bit,” I say, not wanting to talk about it.
“I can’t imagine what you ever saw in him.”
Flash, flair, danger and drive, excitement, exhilaration, and passion, I want to shout, but I imagine Bradley would shake his head, purse his lips, and compare it to a risky investment. Fine mess all that got you in, just like all those clients of Bernie Madoff’s.
I stare ahead at the darkness spread out before us. I’m agitated, and he knows it. Bradley grips the wheel tightly, his eyes focused straight ahead. He takes his eyes off the road momentarily, patting my hand lying on the seat between us. “I’ll never hurt you the way he did, Amy.”
Whoa! My mind skitters all over the place. I’ve known Bradley for a brief time. He is a date, nothing more. And his words are comforting, but he doesn’t even know how Greg hurt me. He doesn’t question or concern himself, he just accepts that it happened. He’s a numbers man, not a details man, after all. But for all he knows I called it quits because my husband trimmed the hedges too short.
Comforting. Do I really feel comforted by Bradley? Is it my dad I long to feel comforted by and can’t be because of my own doing, my own fears about being around him? My fears of slipping, of being found out — my fears of destroying him?
No. Of course not. Bradley is comforting. He is manly. He is… I purse my lips, concentrating, but I can’t think of any more descriptions. And why am I even thinking about my father anyway when I’m on a date?
Because I’m thinking of my father every second of every day.
Time with Bradley is easy, uncomplicated, at least for the most part. There’s no one else in my life I can honestly say that about at the moment. Don’t rock the boat, I constantly remind myself. Don’t overthink it. Just go with it.
Cory offered to take over Saturday morning, so I leave a sleeping Hailey in a heap under her floral quilt and head to a part of town that’s already fully awake, maybe never fully went to sleep. The sun is starting to rise, but I can already tell its brightness will never completely illuminate over the cracked, dingy sidewalks, peeling paint, and overgrown yards strewn with debris, toys, and broken-down cars.
“Sleep well?” Scott asks.
“Yup.”
“Good. You’ll need your energy for what I have planned for you.” Scott turns and heads toward the concrete slab where people are standing looking at blueprints.
Wait. Was that suggestive?
He turns and winks at me as if he’s read my mind and is answering.
“Everyone, this is Amy. Amy, this is Mike, Colin, Beverly, Pat, Sammy, and Debbie.” He points everyone out, and I give one wave.
Scott puts me with Debbie and hands both of us hammers. We work side-by-side companionably, Debbie singing along to the radio, dancing while she hammers in rhythm. I use the peaceful time to practice an impending phone conversation with Helena regarding the investigation. I keep tossing her bits and pieces, but she’s made it clear she wants more, and soon. By mid-morning, another woman, three kids in tow, shows up to join us.
“Wanda, I want you to help Amy and Debbie,” Scott says. “Blake, Sarah, and Tony follow me.” He points to the three kids.
Debbie is up on a ladder when she turns and sees Wanda. She squeals and jumps down from it. “Girl. How is it? You gotta tell me all about it.”
“It’s the best thing since cinnamon met apple pie. Better than Motown music on a Saturday night.”
“Is it better than an afternoon nap during a summer rainstorm? A good man that loves a house full of kids?”
“It’s good, but I don’t know if it’s as good as all that,” Wanda says, and they double over in laughter. Must be some private joke between them or something, but I stand there grinning like I understand it, like a dimwit that just smiles at everything.
“Seriously,” Wanda says, “it’s the best thing to ever happen to us. My babies go to bed every night — a real bed — I ain’t just talkin’ ‘bout no pallet on the floor.”
“Can’t wait,” Debbie whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “This one’s mine,” she says running her hand over bare wood.
Blake, Sara, and Tony are disheartened to find they aren’t leaving to go back to their new air-conditioned home with the swing set in the backyard right after lunch.
“Mo-om,” Sara, the little five-year-old with braided hair and tennis shoes that light up with every stomp of her foot, says. “I’m soooo tired.” Her brothers join in the protest too.
It’s not just Wanda that chastises them for their lack of enthusiasm. There’s a team spirit, a camaraderie among everyone. It’s as if they’ve been part of a group for a long time, and they’re comfortable with each other. It takes a village, they say.
Scott turns to Blake, who’s probably six. Blake is hanging off of his mom’s arms, literally pulling at her like she’s a lever. “What’d I tell you about that whining last weekend?”
Blake stops to think. “That you’d fire me from the job, and I wouldn’t get no more grape Slurpees?”
“That’s right. Now run along and finish up what you were doing earlier, then we’ll take a trip to the store.”
All three kids run back to their tasks. Scott grabs a toolbox and turns to take it back to his truck. I follow along and plop myself down on the tailgate. He grabs two bottles of water from a cooler nearby and moves the toolbox he’s just set down so he can join me. He’s wearing a short-sleeve shirt and the muscles in his forearms strain. I glance toward them. “I thought you said you didn’t work out.”
“I said I don’t go to the gym.” He wipes the sweat on his forehead with a bandanna from his back pocket. “I work out by doing things that have a purpose. “He reaches over and takes hold of a strand of my hair that’s come loose from my braid. “Paint. The ends of your hair are dipped in white paint.” He wipes it with his bandana and tucks it behind my ear. He stares at me, and I at him. “Definitely sea-glass green,” he says, looking in my eyes, then running an index finger down the bridge of my nose. “On your nose too. There’s more paint on you than on the wall.” He takes a deep breath, wipes his finger on his bandana, and takes a swig of his water.
“So you make all your clients work on Habitat Houses?”
“No. Just you. The rest of ‘em I squeeze enough money out of to keep the lights on.”
I look down at the dirt on the ground. “You wanted me to hear their stories. To realize how fortunate I am.”
“I just wanted you to pay your bill. Pull your weight. If you got something else out of it, then it sounds like that’s a bonus.”
He grabs a ball cap from the back pocket of his jeans, whips it into shape, and places it on his head.
“You’re a regular magician. What else you got back there?”
The muscles on his tanned arms flinch again as he picks up a ladder propped against a tree. “Tricks of the trade, Home Girl. Just tricks of the trade.” He winks and walks away.
Wanda and Debbie both call out to me. “Amy, over here. We need your help.” I hold my head up as I stride back toward them imagining I’m the newest member of the village.
Deaton doesn’t seem to know what to do with his energy lately. He bounces from foot to foot like he’s standing on hot pavement.
I’m just back from a spin class — thirsty, sticky, smelly. I just want to open the café, get things going, and run home for a quick shower then return.
“Amy,” he says, sprinting over before I can open the café door. His eyes are wide and sparkly, and his face is flushed with color.
I stare at him.
“You were born here, right?”
“Yeeessss,” I say, drawing the word out, unsure of whether to be honest or not.
“That means your mother had an obstetrician here in Flannery Cove. I know privacy laws have changed and stuff, but that doctor would know if your mom was pregnant again,” he says. “We just need to find that doctor.”
I study him. He’s caught the investigative bug, and I know what that’s like. You do things you wouldn’t normally do for the sake of the case.
“I, um, I think I’m going to have to just drop this, Deaton. Drop the whole thing and let Helena find someone else to prove my mother’s fate to her.”
He blinks as if I’ve come for his eyes with my fingernails. He finally speaks. “What are you saying? This is your responsibility. This is your prerogative.”
“Helena wants a phone call,” I tell him. “She’ll know my voice. I can’t call and discuss this with her. It’s over.”
He looks to the side, considering. “She said this?”
“Yes, in her latest email. It’s not an unusual request,” I say. “At some point, most people do want to speak. If not face to face, then at least on the phone. People know the nature of my business is best kept anonymous, but I get it… at least a phone call.”
“Who does Helena think Unveiled Investigations is?” He asks.
“A team. A company.” I wave my hands to try to come up with words. “Just you know… a group.” I’m honestly amazed I’ve been able to keep her placated this long. The extreme anonymity thing is mostly for the general public, not my own clients. Except when they’re Helena.
He’s silent for a moment, aside from a few exhales and throat murmurs, as thoughts speed through his head like the microfiche reel. “I guess I could call her. It’s just…well, I’d need to look over your previous correspondence. I’d need to be very familiar with everything she knows so far, everything you know.”
“Yes,” I say. “I suppose. But Deaton, this is getting out of hand.” I blow my bangs with my breath, exasperated.
“Well, we’re in it now, Ames. And it’s my fault. I talked you into this when you wanted to turn it down. I guess I bear some responsibility here.” He makes a final determination. “I’ll make the call.”
“There’s no chance she’ll recognize your voice?”
“I don’t think so. There was so much noise in the theater the other night. We could barely hear each other. Geez, Ames, I can’t believe I’m saying this. Who does this kind of crazy stuff?”
